


chasing ghosts

by thinkatory



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Character Death, Deathfic, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Implied Relationships, M/M, Rival Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-09-26 00:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: The ghosts John Silver chases as he dies.





	chasing ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beanarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [a piece of a churchyard fits everybody](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16423088) by [beanarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie). 

If he was ever the sort given to confession, Silver might have to speak for days to relay his list of mistakes and transgressions. The good news is, then, that his last days will not be so wasted.

The ship's doctor was shot through the head two days ago. Silver doses himself and the wound with alcohol and cleans it the best he can. It's enough to help him sleep and get through each day without showing the crew that he's dying. Knowing crews as he does, though, they may already know.

As he stares at the ceiling of his quarters, he knows he can't linger on thoughts of Madi, of his dear daughter Akua. He knows the pain would overcome him if he surrendered to his weaknesses. He must be a pirate, not a father, in times such as these.

He drifts.

_"You treat life like a game of chance." Flint's gaze is hard, off in the distance. "One day, your luck will run out."_

_"We all have streaks of good luck and bad," Silver answers, and raises his eyebrows as he catches a warning look from Flint. "We survive both."_

_"Do we?" Flint asks. _

_If Silver didn't know better, he might have noted concern in the man's face. "You wish to be rid of me, is that it?" he asks, to lighten the mood._

_"I wouldn't count myself so lucky as that," Flint says. Silver grins._

There it is. Yes. Play the trickster, John. Speak lightly and damn the chances.

He grimaces a smile and pushes himself to sit.

"Land!" comes the cry from above. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. It's time.

His crew watches him as he limps out. They pretend to ignore the bandages beneath his clothes just as he does. No one dares speak before him.

"Enjoy yourselves, lads," Silver says, and flashes a grin. "You've well earned your take."

"Aye," someone cries, and the crew takes it up, cheering.

Silver raises a hand to catch their attention, and they fall into the least murmur.

"You will see me again." They're dead silent now. "Return in two days' time. Six bells. Each of you will be needed."

He turns as the quartermaster gives the orders to moor. He can feel his wound oozing, and his mind growing hazy. He aches.

Upon entering his quarters, he seizes upon the chair and drags it to sit back heavily. He thinks to confession, again, what he would leave to the last.

_I have been prideful. I dethroned a king and took his seat. I destroyed a friend._

Or is it not worse than that?

Silver laughs to himself, a dark sound, as the fever takes hold.

* * *

The men disperse. Silver makes his way across the beach and into the town with no escort. This journey is one he takes alone.

Max sees him at the door as he sways, and mirrors his faint smile with a shade of worry. "Come," she says. "I have room for you, Captain."

He laughs as she guides him into the house. "Such pretensions," he notes. "Do you still respect me so much as that?"

"I give each man his due," she answers with a shrug, and gently moves him into a bed. It's soft, and he relaxes into it, cool from his sweat and hot from his core. "Now you will rest. We will take care of you."

"A doctor," Silver says, before he can stop himself. "And... something to write with, Max, please."

He writes while he still has his wits. It all threatens to slip away into despair as he closes his burning eyes. His side aches, so he can't move without cringing, but he still manages to drift away into the soft, warm arms of the fever.

Akua stands before him when he opens his eyes, far older now than the last he saw her, just on the cusp of young womanhood. He fears for her more than he has feared for any woman he has cared about in this world. Her gaze goes up and that's when he sees Flint there, unchanged from the last Silver saw him. Flint cups Akua's chin and fear flashes through Silver, but all Flint does is speak.

"Your father was a fool."

"My mother said so," Akua answers, expression proud and head lifted, a mirror of Madi and Silver's own.

"You will learn from his mistakes," Flint says, withdrawing. "He never did."

"I think he learned plenty," his daughter says, not without irony. "He just did what he must, damn the consequences." She lifts her chin. "Didn't you do the same?"

"No," Flint fires back. "We are not the same." His gaze goes to Silver, and the vision swims before him. "All we share is a crown once worn. That's all."

"I am still a king," Silver croaks out.

"You are a snake," Flint retorts. "But not one to be trifled with."

"Admit it," Silver presses, desperate to hold onto this vision, to keep Flint with him. "You respect me."

Flint stands directly before his bed, now. "You are exactly what you need to be at every opportunity. A rare gift."

"Say it, Flint," Silver says flatly. "Before I die, tell me. Tell me the truth of what you feel."

"You know what I feel." There's something stormy in Flint's gaze. "You chase the wrong ghosts."

Silver realizes Akua, his lanky, sharp, sweet daughter, is gone. "Akua," he calls desperately through the room, and Flint gives a sharp, unamused laugh before Silver's vision swims again and he's gone. "Akua!" he screams.

"John," he hears Max say, and she's patting a cool cloth onto his head, the doctor speaking soft but urgently over his shouting.

He hears it, a voice he's never heard but knows in his core: _"I love you, Papa."_

The pain blooms as beautifully as his love, and he surrenders in a perfect moment to the darkness.

* * *

"What a waste," Max says to the covered grave.

It is no place for a king. Perhaps John Silver was a reprobate, a trickster, but he was the best at what he did. He earned his crown just as Max earned her own status: they survived what came and cut down all comers.

Until now.

She has preparations to make. A man must swing so the English will be well pleased with themselves and ask no more questions, and a letter must go to the maroons.

"You always cause me trouble," Max says to the stone that marks his grave, but adds, "at least as much as I bring myself." She turns away. "I will see you again, Silver."

The grave is silent, the breeze over the hill at peace.


End file.
